The Truth About True Love
by seven years
Summary: Ginny has a few preconceptions on what true love should be. Little fragments of Draco and Ginny's relationship, all the way from how it started, to how it never ended. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter.

**Notes:** Hope you enjoy. :)

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_"That's right," the fox said. "For me you're only a little boy just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you have no need of me, either. For you I'm only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, we'll need each other. You'll be the only boy in the world for me. I'll be the only fox in the world for you…"_

**- The Little Prince**

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1.

Once upon a time Ginny had been young and swinging her legs sitting in her chair as she watched her mother bake apple pies, the sweet taste of those freshly picked fruits dribbling down her chubby chin. Mornings bloomed bright yellow and orange and the gardens were green. There was plenty of hope at night when the lightning bugs came out, that love was pure and unstained by what was beyond the restraints of her fairy lit home. Prince Ravishingly Wonderful waited in the near future, just for her, just for all good girls. And then there was Harry Potter. That had just been the way things were back then.

2.

It had begun very simply with a fleeting idea. It was 6th year and she was very lonely in the library, sharing a snowy night with no one but the musty books around her. The truth was that she missed Harry, who she had long ago started to call hers. And one thing always led to another, and she was wondering about Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy who Harry had said cried in front of transparent ghosts, who cried in front of mirrors as if mesmerized by the sight of his own tears. Draco Malfoy, whose mother was dead and his father's corpse rotting in prison, Draco Malfoy who may or may not be alive depending on Lord Voldemort's whims. Draco Malfoy, who had never really asked for any of this. And at this Ginny was reminded of how alike she was to Harry; pity moved her to remember a boy who was so distant to her own self and life. She looked out the criss-crossed windows and wondered if Draco trudged on under this same lonely winter sky. Maybe not everything was as perfect as The Burrow, or her brightly colored childhood. By now she surely knew.

3.

Ginny saw him five years later, walking aimlessly through the street at dusk. "Oh fuck," she said, before he tumbled into her outstretched hands. He smelled like piss and helpless depravity, and for a surprising moment she thought she loved him. So she took him home.

4.

"Why the fuck are you doing this?" He slapped her hand away from his forehead, where a cool towel lay. "I don't need your charity." Angry, angry sour words. Ginny was nonplussed. Years later, she would reflect that she was blinded by her need to feel compassion. So many had died. Not Draco, though.

"Are you deaf, Weasley? I'm fine now. I don't want your filthy hands on me--get off!" His pale, sharp face was exhausted and lined still with the scowls of immaturity. Ginny pursed her lips and for a moment; was almost angry. Then she placed her hands firmly around his face, rubbing her thumbs over his cheeks. She wanted to shout, 'it's okay. You cried that one time, remember? I know. You're hurt. It's alright.'

"Of course you need me right now," she said instead. "I'm only trying to help. The war's over, Draco. It's all over. It's okay now." Soothing, trained words.

"Fuck you," he yelled, spits of anger crossing his eyes, his brows. She leaned down and covered his head in her embrace. She kissed his greasy hair. His shoulders did not heave as he supposedly released those feelings he had supposedly kept in for so long, but she pretended. Ginny missed Harry, and she looked up at the sky and felt pride at saving someone. She was selfish and ignorant. She was a philanthropist. She touched him with her self-proclaimed goodness. Believed with her big and stupid heart that he was happier, cleaner. Then she would leave, move on to the next un-helped soul. She'd find her Harry.

What she'd never expected was for him to touch her back. His long, skinny fingers wrapping around her spine, throat, heart, like black curling vines.

5.

One night, after weeks of being in her presence, he looked at her lucidly.

"Thanks, I suppose." Her heart beat so so so so so so fast, she was going to die and he was going to live and why did she find wounded things so beautiful?

6.

He had never really left. It was two years later, and he was strong and this was his home, not hers. His things lay strewn around the living room, while she kept her belongings orderly and out of sight in wooden cabinets and desks.

"You hungry?" Ginny asked emptily. She was bored and lonely. Draco ruffled his newspaper importantly. She saw his grimace behind the fluttering papers. "Just a simple answer, Draco," she said, her voice cracking. "Would you like something to eat?"

He threw the _Prophet_ down and glared at her. "Will you stop pestering me? I don't know if I'm hungry. Maybe I'm starving. If I were, I'd tell you. Maybe I'm so full, I'll die if I ate another fucking bite of your unrefined Weasley cooking. And if I were, I'd tell you. But you tell me this. Why am I still here? Ever ask me that? Why do you always ask the wrong questions? Why am I here, Weasley?" He stopped, and his pretty face screwed itself into an ugly and pained glare. Nasty, evil, cruel.

"It's not like I even love you," he said quietly. "In school you were just like the rest. That's worse than being hated, Ginny—to fade into the background of a hundred others. It's just that my life has no direction, isn't it? What do I have left? I'm here because you dragged me here. I never asked for this." He stood and paced, his eyes distressed and his lips gaping as he held his shining head between his hands. "I never asked for this. I didn't." His footsteps were earthquakes when he walked out. These were hard times in between the bland times and indifferent times.

Then Ginny was left to sit forlornly in her modern sage-green chair next to the rack of wine that they never drank. She was crying again. Why was it so hard for him? When would the moment come, when he'd break into that flood of expression she yearned for. So she wouldn't feel so foolish when she poured her heart and soul into his corduroyed lap. I need that, she wished desperately. I need him to Break, break, please, because I think by now I love him and I can't help it. In her mind she was chanting. I never asked for this. I never asked for this. I never asked I never asked I never ever ever ever fucking asked for this. Not this.

6.

But it was her own fault, after all. Her own disillusionment. Her inability to eradicate her astounding naïveté. All pretty little girls with noble boyfriends-who-promised-to-come-back-when-things-were-safer-but-then-fell-in-love-with-lovelier-women wanted to save things. This was why she loved Harry because she was he and he was she. Hermione had said it, and she was right. People who had Saving People Things were destined for one another. Harry was a rebel. All pretty little girls wondered if they were pretty enough to be beautiful, beautiful enough to turn stone to gold. Was she wondrous enough to make Draco Malfoy cry again, was she marvelous enough to make him scream love and emotion, suddenly unafraid and unabashed of being a sensitive loverman. All pretty little Ginny had wanted was to make him make her feel different; I morphed you, I changed you, I opened you. It's me you love, babe. Me.

But also, Draco was Draco. Darkly she knew this, subconsciously, unconsciously. Old habits died hard, but at least they died. You are born the way you are. Draco wasn't a habit. Draco was born bitter. Draco was born to breathe--not fire, as his name suggested--but smoke. Its rank smell invaded her nose and stung her eyes, wickedly persuading them to produce fat rolling tears in the wake of their newfound blindness.

7.

Mentally, she made a list. Things Draco Was Not: 1) Mr. Reformed And Kindly Boyfriend (Because He's Found Love Now, And It's All Better), The Kind Who Doesn't Cause Your Heart To Break As Often As Day Breaks And The Type Who'd Maybe Give You Sensuous Massages After A Long Day At Work Because He Is Empathic When It Comes To You.

Things Draco Was: 1) Mr. Acid Acid Burning Tongue, Says Things He Probably Does Mean (But _That_ Doesn't Mean They're Not Rude), Then Comes Back Days Too Late And Mumbles Apologies To A Girlfriend Who Will Always, Always Accept Them.

Yes. She was love-struck; his words struck like lightning the shape of Harry Potter's scar.

8.

And on other days her skin was crawling at the sight of his dirty socks scattered across their home like a trail that led to leprechaun gold. Every scent and reminder of his existence made her feel cold. Her body, racked with chills, shivered despite the warm late-summer weather. Why, How, When, but mostly Why. Nearly a decade ago she had been sixteen and her mind swimming with thoughts of living with the Boy-Who-Lived. That girl would have laughed at her now. She laughed too, but hers was a nostalgically tragic giggle, equal parts sad and maniacal. She wanted to scream at him, "This is kind of screwed up, isn't it!" How in the fucking world had they ended up together. What cruelly ironic twist of destiny, of whatever controlled their lives. What brand of faith had led them here, to be sitting in this sad little house together with nothing to say between them? At times like these Ginny wondered, this isn't love. We stay because we are co-dependent. Two wounded little brats too cowardly to look beyond what has found us. Once upon a time we happened to run into each other. The world is so big that the people are so spread out that he was all I had, and I was most certainly all he had. Yes. Yes. He loves me only as much as he needs me. This deafening truth was only comforted by the assertion that all love was based in need. I love you so I need you. I need you, so I love you. Come now, Ginny, the night wind crooned. Everyone's lonely. It isn't so bad.

9.

He stumbled through a week later with three crumpled roses in his hand. She knew that they were from the corner vendor-woman who sold them at a mere knut because they were weak and dying and black around the edges. Ginny is good-hearted, though, and she pretended so hard that those flowers were fresh and foreign that she almost believed it herself.

"Thank you," she breathed pathetically. Draco's eyes were on the floor.

"I...I don't think I should have said the things I said."

"It's okay."

"Hey." He lifted up her chin with his hand. "You know me. I'm hot-tempered. But you know I'm here by choice. You and I, we stick together. What d'you say to eating out tonight, Gin? I'll make it up to you."

Outside on the streets they walked hand in hand. The rose-woman looked at Ginny knowingly, with the big sad eyes of someone who had traveled much of the world. The blue hues of evening were beginning to set in. Behind a tall building, there was a burst of an orange-red sun. Draco's pale face was illuminated by it, illuminated by sudden strangeness. Strange as in, how the two of them had ever ended up walking alone together. The Earth was big. They were so tiny.

10.

At the restaurant, a small shabby place with other small shabby people, Draco kept shooting her glances. He was in a mood.

"I love you," he said over his plate of food. Ginny's smile bloomed bright unlike the plants scrunched in her palm, the soggy thorns melting against the dampness of her perspiration.

"I love you too." He looked at her anew. Ginny felt blessedly cursed. In her silly worn heart there was hope again that maybe, he could really change. Maybe, she had really done it and there'd be no more fights, no more questioning their love, the validity of their companionship. Maybe.

"And when we get home," he said with a grin, picking up his salad fork, which also doubled as his meat, noodle and anything in-between fork, "I'll fuck you. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Ginny teared up like a sap at his words, because this confirmed her fears. He was both wonderfully terrible and terribly wonderful.

11.

True to his word, he had her pressed up against the wall of their flat before Ginny could reach into her purse for the keys.

"I want to go," she whined against his lips, the scratchiness of his unshaven chin. "The bed, Draco. I like our bed."

"Why?" Draco snarled. He was an animal, at times. A dirty mindless animal. This too she loved, however. "I've never taken you in our hallway before, have I? Why shouldn't I? I think you're mine. "

But Ginny had found her metal keys. Metal comfort. They found its home, fitting into the doorknob and releasing the lock until Ginny could fall backwards into their humble foyer. She grabbed him by the same tie he always wore and led him to the bed he rarely slept on. In five minutes she would have her legs splayed by her side, stretched so wide that it would be impossible for her to be not broken. But being broken by Draco was better than being not broken at all, wasn't it. She was savage with him, then. Something about the shape of her body, her back pressed roughly against the wooden headboard, and her eyes rolling to the back of her head as he slammed thrust slammed into her very core. "Oh God Oh God Oh God." She panted the muggle expression wrought from her muggle-loving father. Yes, God. Deity. Omnipresent being. Yes, help me God. Anger and loving were so close in these moments. Ginny could feel Draco alive within her, his emotions swirling in the form of milky white semen, not tears. It would do for now.

12.

In the afterwards, he allowed her to stroke his damp hair. He was not one of those types that fell asleep after sex. He tried. But being emptied made him feel empty. He was melancholy and lonely and it was another starless night. When he reached, Ginny was there. Ginny, not anyone else. Ginny Molly Weasley. He felt it an out-of-body experience every time he touched her body.

"I love you," she whispered passionately, her cheeks flushed and her arms sweetly aching. He looked at her elbow. Her knee. Her neck. But not her face.

"Don't you love me anymore?" Ginny prodded gently.

Draco found himself irate, and answering before he could stop himself. It was father nature. "I guess I don't," he said childishly. "Why are you always so needy?" Ginny's face tightened as if she'd been slapped. But she did not retract her hand from his head. Draco sighed through clenched teeth. If she started crying….

"Look, I didn't mean that. You're not needy…just, un-confident. I don't blame you."

Ginny shook her head strongly. When she spoke, her words were strangely acerbic. "No. Don't treat me like an idiot. I know how things are. I can't change them." Her breath smelled bitter. Draco tensed up, then buried his nose in the warmth of her embrace.

"Don't leave me, Ginny," he pleaded, suddenly sounding a little bit frightened. "Not tonight." Ginny's breathing jittered for a second.

"I won't," she promised solemnly. But secretly she thought that he knew that she could never leave him now, not in a million eternities.

13.

Then again, in the twilight of some other nameless day, she walked past the rose vendor once more. This time, she stopped to smell them. This time, she spoke.

"He's yours, isn't he?" asked the woman, her big ancient head nodding towards Draco, who was idly wandering nearby. Ginny paused and thought. She licked her lips, and when she answered, the words tasted refreshingly ripe. Just like those childhood apples of forever ago. She smiled. The old lady looked at her with sage eyes that said, '_Then what are you waiting for?_'

Ginny paid her, and then strode over to what was, by now, more than rightfully hers—more hers than any silly Harry-crush had been, and linked her arm through his. Because no one else in the world knew him or cared for him as completely as she did. And that made him hers. That. Was that all there was to it? Around them the trees were tinged a brittle golden brown. The city was breezy, the buildings were towering, and perhaps probably, Draco was her true love. What came to mind at fated, destined love was different from what she'd expected for so long. True true honest love was true for its likeness to everything else that was raw, real, and therefore warped and flawed and erroneous. Truth was messy, truth was hard, truth was necessary. This was truth. Accepting this. Letting go of her princess-fairy stories of age five through sixteen, she was suddenly gladdened by the vastness of her planet and all the hurts and pains were needed and essential and trivial and gorgeous in their own right. There was no fated love, no one real prince charming to put the glow in her life. She had chosen him, she had met him and known him and kissed him and hated him all until he became every single person in the universe for her. That. Was. Love. Sensational, and out of her control. The wind felt so good against her face.

"Are you okay?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. Ginny grinned up at him before pushing her blowing hair back behind her ear. For once she was not reminded of the strangeness of his presence. Where else would he be, but next to her?

"I'm fine," she said assuredly. She reached up and touched his wind-chilled cheek. "Come on. Let's go home."


End file.
